You Might Be a Frazzled Mom If....

You Might Be a Frazzled Mom If...

Jeff Foxworthy, the Georgia-born comedian, has gained stellar success poking fun at rednecks.  

From Michigan to Mississippi, everyone has a relative like uncle Darryl who lost a tooth at the family reunion opening a beer bottle or a cousin Junior who had to take a toothpick out of his mouth for his wedding pictures.   

Jeff’s humor is steeped in the South, and he satirizes the culture he knows best.  Like Jeff, I write about the strange circle of sisterhood I know best—mothers, the women who walk on water and run on adrenaline.  To mirror Jeff’s “You might be a redneck if.....” mantra, I’d like to share my own maxims of motherhood.

You Might Be a Frazzled Mom if........

... you’ve never had tulips coming up in your yard in the spring.  You would’ve had to plant them in October.  Like that’ll happen when the kids actually bring the garbage cans up from the curb all the way to the house.  Or when you vacuum behind the dryer.

... you haven’t noticed the phrase “Honk if you think I’m dirty” written by your 10-year-old in the layer of grime on your SUV’s back window.   After three weeks, you’re wondering why the guy at Starbucks always winks at you when he hands you your Grande Latté at the drive-thru.

... “Pulling yourself together” means wearing a baseball cap and lipstick.  Then maybe no one will notice your zits from not washing your face at night or the baby spit-up down your shirt.

... you don’t have any recipes without cream of something soup and Ritz crackers on top.

... you never remember anyone’s name, but you don't remember meeting them in the first place.

... stealing babysitters doesn’t bother you at ALL anymore.

... you will never, under any circumstance, sit on the bottom bleacher at your kid’s basketball game because the fluorescent light reflects off your gray roots, bathing you in an iridescent aura that makes you you look fatter.

... after a harrowing grocery store experience with a baby and two toddlers, you have very low patience with the rotund bag boy who comments that the 5-Hour Energy drink you’re buying will kill you.  You’re not even ashamed that you’re thinking, “So will Cheetos and Ding Dongs, pork boy.  Go away.”

... you have to compose your daughter’s term paper due Monday on an Arby’s napkin as you drive eight hours home after her club soccer team won the State Championship,  and she’s passed out in the back seat.  The school mandates that you write it on “The Downside of American Competitiveness.”  ....  Freakin’ liberals. 

... your car insurance went up when you hit a biker while driving to your son’s game because you sprung into the other seat to keep his water jug from falling over in the passenger floorboard on account of it would leak all over your carpet and smell like mildew tomorrow.  I mean, the biker’s ok.  You wonder if your insurance company has ever smelled mildewed carpet.

... your friends want to give you a make-over for your birthday because obviously you don’t know how to apply make-up.  The real reason you look like you put on your eye liner during airplane turbulence is that while applying it, your Yukon’s back right tire ran over the curb when you pulled out of Sonic and a hot tater tot fell inside your shirt.  

... you never wear jewelry although you have tons.  People give it to you because they figure you don’t have any.  In reality your necklaces get caught in the shoulder strap of your seat belt when you turn around to slap the kids in the back of the car.

... if your idea of a fantasy vacation is a week alone with a case of Chardonnay and “Sex in the City” DVD’s in the Motel 6 down the street.

... your clothes smell like mildew because they’ve been left in the washer for three days.  You blame kids.

... you’re in the grocery store in front of the milk and your three-year-old son says, “Baby Jenna doesn’t like this milk, mommy.  She only likes your milk, right?“   Barbie is standing nearby in all her perkiness and notices that certain areas of your baggy gray t-shirt are wet because your son just mentioned that.

... the clicker that unlocks your car has never worked because it’s been dropped in public toilets so many times due to holding your purse, a baby and a diaper bag while trying to go to the bathroom with no lousy hooks in the stall.

... you never back up and adjust when you pull into a parking space with your 25-foot SUV.  If a jerk pulls into the narrow space beside you and dings your door, you pull your daughter’s softball bat out of the back and go Carrie Underwood on him. 

...you’re ok with your kids watching eight hours of movies driving to Florida.  Seeing corn fields and signs for Rock City did not broaden your horizons as a kid.  They can see kudzu and cows in their geography books, and while your husband drives, you can read your “Celebrity Sluts” magazine in peace. 

And last but not least......

... you don’t proofread your emails.  Your scathing email to the school principal about his being too busy to meet with you says, “You should spend a day in MY shoes!  I’d like to swap wives with you to show you what busy IS!” 

        OR...

...you email the College Admissions office telling them about all the wonderful community service your daughter has done—like delivering Meals on Wheels to all the little old ladies who are too sick to leave home.  It reads, “For two years she has delivered food to all the slut-ins in the whole church.”

        OR...

You email your best customer cheerfully thanking him for his order.  “We’re expecting your order to shit today.  I’m surprised it hasn’t shitted yet.”

So, if you’ve answered “Yes, yes!!  That’s ME!” to any five of these examples, then congratulations—you’re a forgetful, under-appreciated, just-keeping-your-head-above-water example of a wonderful mother. You’re a member of an insane, loud, selfish, loving and loyal family. 

So when times get tough, treat yourself to a bottle of Kendall Jackson in the Motel 6 for a week.  No more nagging and negotiating, complaining and cleaning, no more belly laughs from kids farting and blaming the dog, and no more cozy bedtime conversations.  You just might come running back.